


Christmas By A Dozen

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of twelve drabbles and accompanying illustrations for the wincestmas event on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

It’s Sammy’s first Christmas, and they don’t even have a Christmas tree.

Or gifts, for that matter. Or anyone to supervise them. Dad’s not here. He’ll be here come nightfall, but he’s not here now, and Dean’s missing Mom. Sam’s never even had a proper Christmas.

It was so fun last year. They had a huge Christmas tree set up, and it was all lit up, and there were presents under it! Bright, pretty presents, wrapped in pretty paper and tied with big bows. Dean needed a bit of help of opening them.

There were toy cars. Toy soldiers. Bright books with pretty pictures, and Dean knew his mom would read ‘em aloud to him. He loved hearing her read aloud in her soft, sweet voice, and flip through page after page until he dozed off tucked under her arm, like a small bird under a wing.

That wasn’t gonna happen anymore. Now all he has is this dark motel room and a little toy soldier. It was in his pajamas pocket the night it all burned down.

The tree. The other toy soldiers. The toy truck. The bright books with pretty pictures.

His mom.

Sam stirs awake, crying, as if he could feel Dean getting sad and wants to cheer him up with some screaming. Dean trots over and picks him up. Sam’s getting pretty heavy, but nothing Dean can’t handle.

Sam’s not hungry. He’s clean, too. Probably just lonely. Dean understands. But it’s less lonely when he’s holding Sam.

He’s so small in his arms, and all Dean knows is protect-protect-protect like a neverending beat of his own little heart. Sam’s all he has.

Someday, when they’re grown up, and it all becomes okay, Dean’s gonna make sure Sam learns everything about Christmas. And for now, this was fine. As long as Sammy was safe in his arms.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” he mumbles before pulling out a toy soldier, the toy soldier. “This is for you, but you can’t play with it yet.” He’s gonna give it to Sam for real when Sam grows up a little. Dean can’t wait. It’s gonna be amazing. A friend that’s always with him.

The neon lights of the motel’s vacancy sign flicker on and light up the motel room. Dean walks up to the window, carrying Sam in his arms. Snowflakes are falling outside, and the sign is shining brightly.

Just like the lights on the Christmas tree.

Dean smiles, and Sam giggles too in that toothless baby giggly way.

“C’mon. I’ll read to you,” Dean says in a serious voice and settles them both on the bed. He has a tattered comic issue Dad got for him several states ago. Dean doesn’t know how to read all the letters just yet, but he makes the parts he doesn’t understand up. There are pictures there. They help.

“That’s Batman,” he tells Sam and taps the cover before opening the comic up.

Sam falls asleep somewhere around page fifteen. That’s just when it gets good. Batman’s chasing the bad guys on his Batmobile. It’s okay, though. They can finish it tomorrow.

It’s Sammy’s first Christmas.


	2. ii.

 

Dean fucking ditches him.

It’s Christmas, and Dean fucking ditches him. Because, apparently, Christmas is a big hit with girls who don’t want to be alone for the holidays or are looking to get back at their exes who broke up with them so they wouldn’t have to get ‘em a gift for Christmas.

These annoying girls with long nails and floral perfumes and plump lips covered in lipstick. Sam hates it when Dean returns with scratches along his back, smelling of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke and someone’s perfume and his neck has pink-red-purple splotches. Either lipstick or lovebites.

Sam hates these girls with all the fervent passion of a fourteen-years-old whose first crush doesn’t like them back. Scratch that, whose first love doesn’t love them back. Whatever fucked-up thing he harbours for Dean, it moved far and beyond a crush. No, it’s a tic under his skin that won’t go away, an itch he cannot scratch, a twist of his heart between every damn beat.

This is love, and it’s all wrong, and Sam’s all wrong.

But Dean’s fucking wrong too. It’s supposed to be a family holiday. For someone who goes off in spiels about family as often as Dean or John do, they sure suck at actually showing up to things.

Dean used to always spend Christmas with him. But now Dean’s all grown-up, and he gets pissed when Sam whispers to him ‘are you awake?’ late at night when he can’t sleep instead of chatting with him like he used to. Now Dean likes girls, and cars, and guns, while Sam prefers books and solitude.

Maybe they’re just growing apart.

Sam hates it, too.

So there Sam sits, on the floor in the motel room, getting through the assigned reading over the Christmas break. Probably, he shouldn’t even be bothering with reading it. They’ll be somewhere else by the time it’s over. But, usually, Sam actually loves the assigned reading. Doesn’t matter how much Dean teases him for it.

Today, his eyes slip right by the words on the pages, and he’s so fucking tired.

His mind wonders. He thinks back to a couple days ago. Dean seemed to look a little pissed at one of Sam’s friends pecking him on the cheek while he was at the school’s parking lot. Or, maybe, Dean was just pissed, and it was Sam’s imagination. Wishful thinking. No way Dean felt the same, right? But there was a fire in Dean’s eyes that reminded Sam of the way he felt whenever Dean had a pretty young thing on his arm.

Sam’s never gonna admit to any of this, ‘course.

And then, the door opens. Sam’s fingers jump onto the gun under his pillow, clutch the heavy Smith & Wesson tightly.

“Whoa there, tiger. It’s me,” Dean says, raising one of his hands in a don’t-shoot gesture. The other one’s clutching a sixer of beer. Sam relaxes.

“What are you doing here so early? You strike out with every girl in the area?” he asks, squinting in Dean’s direction.

“Nah. No one cute tonight,” Dean answers after a short pause, and he doesn’t meet his eyes while he talks. Sam feels a sudden surge of gratitude he isn’t about to express. It all goes unsaid in their family, the good stuff and the bad. Leaves only the neutrals. ‘Eat your goddamn breakfast’ in Dean’s language means ‘I love you’. It’s a good thing Sam knows how to translate. “I got us some beer. To celebrate.”

“I’m not legal to drink, Dean,” Sam rolls his eyes with a scoff. “And neither are you, for that matter.”

“Oh, unclench, wouldya? We’ve got a goodie-two-shoes over here, huh?” Dean nudges him in the side with the tip of his boot and plops down on the floor across him. “C’mon, Sammy, live a little,” he tosses a bottle over to Sam, and he grasps it mid-flight. “Here’s to us.”

“Here’s to us,” Sam echoes. He struggles with opening the bottle, and Dean helps him out, opening it in a one motion against the bedside table.

The beer’s kind of shitty, but it doesn’t really matter.

Sam’s first love is here with him.


	3. iii.

 

Sam is seventeen. Sam’s in love. Sam’s love is in love with him.

His life looks pretty awesome right now. 

“— dunno iv Savvta iv coving tovit, buv you ane coving fov suve,” Dean mumbles through the crinkles of the foil of the condom between his teeth. Sam laughs. 

“I have no idea what you just said,” he breathes out, and he’s so fucking happy right now, buzzed on the champagne Dean sneaked in. They’re all alone, and, hell, Sam’s so glad John doesn’t bother with showing up a whole lot anymore. That means they can be themselves. That means that Dean allows himself to look at him like that. 

His eyes are so fucking green, and they make Sam think of spring buds opening, and life bursting awake. And it makes him want to live, just so he can breathe in that spring air — as long as Dean’s around, it’s spring every damn day. 

Dean rips the foil apart and peels the remaining part off his tongue where it sticks to. “I said,  ‘I dunno if Santa is coming tonight, but you’re coming for’sho’.” He rolls his eyes.

“Well, y’know what? Ripping stuff with your teeth?  _Saucy_ ,” Sam says with another laugh. “Dirty talk? Sexy as hell. But they don’t really work together.”

“That’s a lot of smack coming from someone wearing this shirt,” Dean nods over at Sam’s purple shirt with a dog drawing stretched across his chest. 

“Excuse you, my shirt’s awesome. And if you don’t like it, well, you could always take it off.”

“Thinking I’m gonna take you on this suggestion,” Dean whispers, leaning in. 

Sam’s keeping most of his joy pent-up in the inside, but he still can’t help grinning like an idiot when Dean kisses him, laughing against his lips.


	4. iv.

Four years have passed since Dean was able to get drunk legally, every single watering hole ready to serve him shittastic cheap whiskey with a glimpse on his real ID.

Last two years, it was a saving grace that kept him sane. Somewhat. He misses Sam sober and he misses him drunk, but drunken haze dulls the sharp edges, makes it all drown in mist. 

Sam’s smile. Sam’s little quirks. Sam’s annoying purple shirt. Sam’s hair that smelled of pine. Sam’s books. Sam’s dick, for fuck’s sake. 

God, he’s pathetic. 

But Sam walked out. Put Dean in front of a choice, and hell if Dean could leave hunting behind. He pleaded with Sam to stay. They made a hell of a team out there!  

But Sam didn’t, and it’s like everything’s lost its taste and meaning since. Like the Sam-shaped hole in his whole goddamn being sucked it out.

Dean’s sober when he buys the postcard. A blue postcard with some non-denominational winter scene.

Dean’s pretty drunk when he writes the text on it, quickly, before he has a chance to change his mind. Blacks out the unfinished last couple words anyway. Fuck that. He’s not gonna be some kind of a sad, moping, Nicholas Sparks-worthy chick. 

He slides it into the mailbox, and kind of wants to scramble for it immediately, get it back and tear it up. But it’s too late.

Well, maybe Sam’ll be happy to hear he hadn’t kicked it yet. Or, more likely, with the way US Post works ‘round the holidays, Sam’s gonna be happy to hear that he hadn’t kicked it as of two or so weeks ago. 

Dean reads the newspaper, the Christmas edition with a smiling Santa Claus on the front page. There’s something that sounds like a fang down east.

The Impala’s headlights are the only Christmas lights that he really needs.

 


	5. v.

It’s been kind of awkward between them still. Searching for Dad ‘cross country turned out to be a more difficult job than either of them expected it to be. He knew how to hide his tracks. Sam didn’t see eye to eye with him on most (read: all) things, but the man was a good hunter. 

Too bad he couldn’t be much of a good father. As worried as Dean was, Sam was pretty sure Dad just didn’t pick up his phone ‘cause dropping a trail of breadcrumbs for them to follow was so much more entertaining. Sometimes he thought it might be just another fucked-up method of training.

Seemed Dean was pretty sure Dad was lying wounded in a ditch somewhere or worse. That he needed help. Well, it wasn’t like Sam had much else to do but to follow Dean around. He couldn’t go back.

He didn’t go forward, to Dean, either. They haven’t brought the subject of  _them_ once yet, carefully side-stepping all the landmines.

Sam rubbed at his eyes. The motel was cold. Scratch that, fucking freezing. Dean was off getting food.

God, it sucked. The snow outside was heavy as hell too. They’ll be lucky if they don’t get snowed in. Dean’s gonna get bitchy about that for sure, ‘cause cold’s no friend of a classic car. He loves his Baby way too much for his own good.

The door swings open, and Dean walks in. He has snow on his leather jacket and in his hair, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are bright pink from the cold nipping on them. Sam gives him a smile, ‘cause Dean’s grinning, and that lifts his own spirit a little bit. 

“Heya. They closed early today. I had to charm my way in with the cashier. She didn’t wanna sell, ‘cause they were closed by then,” Dean says. “But, hey, got the grub and that’s what matters in life.”

“Closed early? Why?”

Dean raises his eyebrow. “What rock are you living under, Sammy?”

He pulls something out of his pocket, and then Sam remembers. A wrinkled, a little worn-out mistletoe. 

“Right.”

God, he forgot Christmas. Last year, Jess and him celebrated it together, with a proper tree and gifts and whatever, getting ready several weeks in advance. They talked about hosting a get-together next year, too.

This year, he didn’t even remember Christmas until it rolled around. 

Sam feels like he’s never gonna be warm again. Like the frost wrapped around his very soul and made its claim. 

Dean watches him somewhat sadly before dangling the mistletoe above his head. “No pressure, but maybe I can make you feel better,” he offers, and that’s so Dean it hurts. He doesn’t get that he already makes Sam feel better by hanging around. He thinks he needs to offer something more. Like his lips. Or his whole body.

Or his heart.

Sam isn’t sure he’s worthy of holding it. He dropped it once already. 

But he can’t bear not taking it either, not when Dean’s offering it, patched-up and a bit dusty, but still his. 

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout me, Dean. I’m good,” he shakes his head. “C’mon. Let’s just eat.”

Dean drops his hand and the subject very quickly. 

“Let’s eat,” he nods. 

It’s not until late at night that Sam finally gives in to the rush of the blood in his ears. 

“Dean. You awake?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, and there’s no sleepy notes to his voice. He’s alert and awake, as if waiting for a sneak attack in the night, and Sam’s breath hitches. 

“Can I still—“

“Yeah,” Dean cuts him off. Sam rolls out of his bed, and Dean sits up to meet him for a kiss, a warm kiss that rapidly heats up.

It doesn’t exactly thaw the ice, but it’s a fucking start. 

Dean’s hands roam his body in a familiar, long-forgotten way. They’re rough, Dean’s hands. Bruised knuckles and calloused skin and grave dirt under the fingernails. Hands of a fighter.

Dean proves to him he’s still a lover as well.

The morning after isn’t exactly awkward, but it’s still not too light. Dean whips up a breakfast out of the leftovers and pushes the plate to Sam.

Sam kisses him on the steps leading out of the motel, driving his fingers into the leather of Dean’s coat, and Dean clings so very close. 

This cold motel room in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Ohio is the last room with two beds they rent.


	6. vi.

“Where do you want to go, Dean?” Sam murmurs. “It’s Christmas. High time we both relaxed a little, don’t you think?” 

By the Hell’s customs, Dean’s supposed to sit at the foot of the throne at all times. To know his place or whatever.  

Sam doesn’t really give a fuck about the customs. He lets Dean perch on the armrest of his throne, and runs his hand up and down Dean’s back whenever he’s talking to one of the demons reporting for business. Dean tried to listen in before, when he was still harbouring hope that someday he’ll be able to do something, anything, and Sam, Hell’s Boyking, will become his  _Sammy_  again. 

He doesn’t anymore.

“How does France sound? England, maybe? Or Italy?” 

“Italy, okay,” Dean says, and Sam smiles, Sam reaches out to place a hand on his cheek. A gentle brush of fingertips against his skin, as if these same hands don’t kill, don’t rip into shreds, don’t scorch to the bone. As if they were never soaked in blood. 

Thing is, Sam loves him still.

Thing is, Dean loves Sam still as well, and that’s why he’s here, why he hadn’t staged some kind of a suicidal escape attempt. He doesn’t want to run, not anymore. 

Sam’s happy. Sam’s not gonna die on him again. Dean’s a terrible person, probably, but he values that above all else. Above all the evil Sam’s doing while he watches. It always scared him a little, the things he was willing to do for Sam. The things he was willing to overlook. 

This is, probably, too much. Too far. Dean doesn’t even know anymore. Sam’s name is the only tune his goddamn heart knows how to dance to. 

Sam raises from the throne. 

“I still have some business to finish today, but then we may go,” he says, and his voice doesn’t leave much room to wonder about the nature of that business. Dean scrambles on his feet as well and wraps his hands around Sam, burying his face in Sam’s cape. It smells of a fire in the woods. 

“You said it yourself, Sam. It’s Christmas,” Dean breathes out. “Let’s just go now, huh? Whatever it is, it’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Sam breathes in, turns around and pulls Dean close. Dean’s by no means a fragile little thing, but he feels fucking tiny when Sam’s near. Sam’s like the goddamn sun. Blinding. Coming too close will get you burned. But Dean can’t live without him against his skin, either.

“Yeah. It’ll be there tomorrow,” Sam agrees softly. “Let’s go now, love.”

Dean closes his eyes and opens them in Rome.

 


	7. vii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a mention of noncon voyeurism done by a villainous character.

 

Dean Smith is not easy. He has plenty of self-respect, thank you very much. Three dates rule, all that. 

That’s exactly why he shouldn’t be sitting in Sam Wesson’s lap in a storage room during the Christmas corporate party. Well, he supposes that the several hunts they went to could, with a stretch, count as dates. And he’s had some champagne. And they’re just making out — Sam’s attacking his collarbone with hungry open-mouthed kisses, holding him in place with his large hands.

Dean arches when Sam shifts, pulling him even closer. 

Truth is, there’s some bond between the two of them. A connection or whatever. Dean feels like he’ve already done all that, even though he definitely hadn’t. He’s never kissed Sam before, never swiped his tongue over his lower lip. Never gripped that long hair of his that smells of pine. 

Sam rocks his hips up, and Dean throws his leg over Sam’s, straddling him. They had some strange synchronisation, an ease between the two of them, while they were hunting. This is the same. 

Dean doesn’t think about it too hard, and Sam gives him a distraction soon afterwards anyway. 

——–

Somewhere off in his heavenly offices, Zachariah groans, watching the righteous man wrap his legs around his abomination of a brother’s waist. Sure, they found their way to the hunting again, their destiny, but they also found each other’s bodies, and that was against the lesson Zachariah was trying to teach here.

Disgusting, puny humans, giving in their sins of flesh, grinding, biting, panting—

“I’d like to hand in a report,” a gruff voice resounds over Zachariah’s ear. He looks up to see Castiel, squinting at the image. “Is that— “

Zachariah doesn’t appreciate the notes in Castiel’s voice. 

“Eyes front, soldier,” he says shortly. 

The righteous man moans, loud and obscene.

 


	8. viii.

It’s the apocalypse, and Sam has a cold.

Thing is, that’s somehow soothing. Dean knows what to do when Sam has a cold. He doesn’t know what to make of the fact that Sam’s Lucifer’s designated prom suit, doesn’t know how to live on the wreck the two of them made of the Earth, doesn’t know how to deal with one soul-crushing blow after the other, doesn’t know much anymore.

It was simple until it wasn’t.

Now it’s kind of simple again. Dean dabs Sam’s heated forehead with a wet cloth, Dean makes him swallow the bitter cough syrup, Dean pops the pills for him, and covers him with blankets, and shoves soup and cups of tea and shots of booze (hey, that helps) at him.

He knows what to do. Sam, too, doesn’t protest all too much, sliding into the role of the little brother, Dean’s baby boy, with no problem.

Sam feels a little better around Christmas, and they watch the TV together, a re-run of Home Alone. Sam drifts asleep on his shoulder eventually. Dean watches his chest rise and fall steadily for awhile before finally moving aside. He goes to find a pillow to put under Sam’s head.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, pushing the strands of his long hair out of his feverish forehead, and leans in to kiss it.

The world hasn’t ended yet, because Sam’s still by his side.

It’s (not) the apocalypse, and Sam has a cold.

 


	9. ix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied past non-con.

 

Sam’s cold, so fucking cold, and it seems like ice is running through his veins these days. Like he’s never gonna be warm again. 

It’s warm around him, in spite of it being Christmas. Dean made sure to fix up the heater Bobby had in his junk scraps pile. 

The cold comes from the inside, blooms right there in his lungs.

Lucifer’s singing a choral, and that makes Sam want to cover his ears and curl up in a ball, but Dean’s right next to him, and Sam squeezes his hand instead before turning around to Dean. 

Whenever they are doing anything lately, Sam’s always in control, and Dean lets him, silently, wordlessly. He can’t give up the reigns to Dean, otherwise he might flip. Otherwise, he might remember too much of the cage. 

Dean, bless his soul, understands. He doesn’t ask questions, and goes with what Sam wants. 

Sam leans in to kiss Dean, but then there’s a rough hand placed over his mouth and nose, and he gasps, wasting precious air. Dean raises his eyebrows. 

“Is he here?” Dean asks, and Sam tries his best to nod. He chokes — on thin air, this is thin air, there’s no one actually there — and Dean’s warm hand is on his, and it squeezes, but it’s not enough.

Dean bites down on his lip, drives his nails in Sam’s palm, one-two-three, as if he was trying to administer CPR on Sam’s hand.

That kind of was the case. 

 _Sam, Sam, stay with me, dammit_ —

The world around Sam melts into nothing so very slowly, vision darkening in a black haze, and then, finally, Dean gets through. The world is so very bright and very loud and all at once.

Sam gasps, and Dean pulls him close. 

“C’mon, man. I got you,” he mumbles, and Sam shakes a little. Or a lot. Dean cradles him in his arms and hushes quietly until Sam’s breathing steadies. Dean’s eyes are full of green, and it’s enough to hold on to in the never-ending winter.  
  
“How about we just watch TV today instead?” Dean offers, and Sam knows that’s his way of saying  _let’s just cuddle_  and  _I love you_  and all that stuff Dean never says. Sam could write a book of all unspoken things binding them together.   
  
“Sounds great,” Sam finally manages, and that’s almost as good as an  _I love you too_.

Dean kisses him, all soft and careful, Dean’s warm lips pressing against the corner of his mouth.


	10. x.

Sam gets de-aged, body and mind, while they’re fighting a witch in the end of December, and Dean finally gets to give him a proper Christmas. With a big tree, and all the decorations, and maybe even a mall Santa visit. With presents and candy canes, and Christmas jingles playing in the Impala. 

Dean reads out loud to Sam, too, one of the books he gives him for Christmas. 

There’s a plate of cookies out, and the bunker’s sleepy and Christmasy and jolly.

Sam sleeps in Dean’s arms, safe and sound.


	11. xi.

It’s been a couple days since Dean snapped and carved his way through these people. If you ask Sam, they were pretty much scum of the earth. No one’s gonna miss a bunch of low-lives like that. Their intentions regarding Claire were pretty much crystal clear.

They were still people — not things that needed killing, people. And even if they were more monstrous than some things that went bump in the night, so what? They still didn’t have the right to decide who lives and who dies. That was a slippery slope.

Dean didn’t decide, though. It was the Mark that was eating away at him, chipping away at his essence, until there was just rage and bloodlust. Sam needed to do something. Help him. Any way would do.

For now, all he really could do was pour over books (nothing there) and knock at the door of the spare bedroom. Dean locked himself in since that day. He didn’t say anything as they walked into the bunker, and didn’t go with Sam to their bedroom, either. He was still leaving his room sometimes, but Sam could only guess that it happened by food disappearing from the fridge or the distant roar of the ancient plumbing late at night. 

Apart from that, he saw no trace of Dean, and this meant him pleading under the door and trying everything, even humming ‘Do You Want to Build a Snowman’ under his nose in hopes that Dean would emerge to call him a girl, ‘cause who else knows songs from ‘Frozen’ by heart?

Nope. No such luck. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard the stifled, somewhat bitter laugh on the other side of the door or if it was just his imagination, either. 

In Dean’s absence Sam started cleaning up the bunker. They’ve been living in here for two years, and yet there were still plenty unexplored corners. Well, to be honest, they didn’t exactly have an opportunity for a spring cleaning with one disaster going down after another.

Now, though, Sam rifles through it all, sorting, revising, bookmarking and cataloguing. It soothes him. Keeps him grounded. Keeps him sane. He has to hold it together for Dean somehow, no matter how scared for (and, maybe, a tiny bit  _of_ ) him Sam feels. A small chill’s still running down his bones whenever he remembers the black void of Dean’s eyes. It almost lingers, almost haunts the bunker, with the screams of ‘c’mon, Sammy, come out and play!’, and Sam almost shudders when he walks past the spot where Dean tried to bash his scull in with a hammer. Dean fixed the wall, but it’s not as easy to fix the thing on his arm.

Sam can’t ever let him go over that edge again.

Day of Christmas, he finds an ancient record player and a collection of recordings. Sam puts it on the table in the library, wipes the dust off and sets the needle on one of the black disk. It still works, too, in spite of having chipped corners, and maybe the sound’s a little cracking and hollow, but it’s there still. 

He closes his eyes for a second, cheery 40s Christmas music ringing through the somewhat decked halls (their preparations for Christmas were rudely interrupted).

“Hey,” a voice resounds way too close for comfort, and Sam stifles a yelp, quickly moving aside. “Whoa there, tiger. It’s me,” Dean smiles at him, and maybe his smile is chipped, and his eyes are red and tired, and the green had almost faded a little, and he’s sporting more scruff than he does usually, Sam is still pretty stoked to see him. “Merry Christmas.”

Dean probably doesn’t want to Talk About It, and Sam knows when to stop. Nothing will change if they talk tomorrow. 

There’s a storm swirling over their heads, somewhere up there. Thing is, Sam doesn’t feel like a part of the normal life at all anymore. He wasn’t sure if he ever did, or if he was just fooling himself into it. 

His place’s here with Dean now, on the outskirts of the society, falling through its cracks. Hell, the world above could end tomorrow, with nothing but rust and dust left behind, and he could probably learn to live with it as long as Dean was still there. Not the most heroic thought he’ve ever had, but it was honest.

“C’mere,” Sam mumbles and scoops Dean into a hug. Dean stiffens for a moment, but then leans into the touch, pressing their bodies flush together. He’s warm, so warm, and Sam noses at his hair as Let It Snow plays on the record player. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Sam sways them a little before turning around to the music, and Dean laughs  incredulously, shaking his head. “Dancing, seriously?” he rolls his eyes, but the smile he has playing on his lips is still a fond one.

“Dancing. Deal with it,” Sam replies with a smirk, and Dean gives in, of course he does. Neither of them really knows ballroom dancing, and both of them are trying to dance the leading part, but after a bit of stumbling around the library they finally settle into something semi-resembling a waltz. 

Dean’s hands are firm and warm on his waist, and Dean’s face is buried in the crook of his neck, the music is loud, and it’s fucking magical. They dance themselves under the mistletoe hanging in a doorframe. Sam’s not sure who leans in first, but then they’re kissing desperately, as if the world  _was_  ending this very second. 

Sam’s fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist, as if he’s actually trying to hold him back before he reaches the point of no return — and hell knows Sam’s gonna be right there with him, too.

Dean kisses him like he’s trying to bring himself back to life.

Sam hopes he has enough spring saved up in his lungs to warm Dean up.

Dean pulls away slowly and smiles at him once again. That means Sam’s world’s still standing.  


	12. xii.

merry christmas, i say   
and i give you an amulet that you carry around until your very last breath  
it hangs around your neck and sways  
 _whenever_  you dig a grave up  
 _whenever_  you make a sharp turn, and the car’s wheels scream out (sorry, baby, you whisper, and you love this damn car so much, and i love it too, because i love you—  
i love you, and i’m pretty sure that you love me, but you don’t tell me that, because you don’t talk of love, you talk of a breakfast i have to eat)  
 _whenever_  you drive yourself into my body (it’s like a beautiful car crash, and we burn, trapped together, and i want to burn out with you)  
and you grip my wrists, a symphony of yes please more for two in a motel room    
 _whenever_  you run from something on your trail  
 _whenever whenever whenever_  there’s so many reason for it to sway, and it’s almost hypnotising   
a lucky charm  
  
and i miss it when i leave and you don’t come along (all good things tend to run out, and so did the gasoline in the car wreck of ours)  
it’s still there when you tell me to come back  
it’s a noose around your neck, but it’s there  
i polish it with a kiss and it shines brighter than ever  
  
and then it’s unlucky, or maybe it’s still lucky, but luck’s not enough when you got hell’s bullseye on your back,  
and it’s red and wet with blood, your blood  
i wipe it on my shirt and i hang it on my neck, because it’s my turn to wear this noose  
but the ground can’t hold you down, the ground doesn’t get to keep you  
i do i do i do   
  
you have faith in it and you have faith in me  
all good things run out  
i scramble for the trashcan when the door closes  
it’s not a noose anymore, but it’s not exactly lucky either  
i stash it in my pocket anyway  
maybe it’s an unlucky charm, but it’s mine for the keeping  
i’ll keep it safe until the christmas when you want it again rolls around  
for now it’ll keep me warm   
a spring bud of you in the ice desert down below behind the cage bars  
it has to take me to you again  
my own little golden faith on a black cord;  
  
and the car crash that we are will never stop burning  
and  _whenever_  we go down swinging, the ground won’t get to keep us  
if there’s something that won’t ever run out, it’s us  
then again, we’re not exactly a good thing, are we, dean?  
i love it that way  
and i know you love it too, because you love me.  
you don’t have to say it for me to know.


End file.
